


'Till the Dead Birds Sing

by virdant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Boyband, Crack, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 15:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21077324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/pseuds/virdant
Summary: In the Normal Chapel, Hannibal leaves a message for Will--one conveyed by the voices of their victims.Season 3 AU.





	'Till the Dead Birds Sing

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween month! enjoy this ghostly fic.

The Normal Chapel was wide and cavernous, stone and column. The click of the heels of Will’s shoes echoed throughout the hall, too loud in the otherwise silent chamber.

It was a bated silence: he could feel a shiver up his spine at what was to come, though he didn’t know what it was. He simply knew that there was something lingering in the wings, a curtain waiting to be drawn.

Each step brought him closer and closer to Abigail, sitting in the pews before the chancel in the front. She didn’t turn to look at him, her eyes fixed forward.

Will sat next to her, so close they could only touch.

“This is what Hannibal left us,” Abigail murmured. 

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, it was to bright lights and a wild drumming in his ears.

*

The afterlife was a fickle sort of thing. There were those who claimed eternal rest, others who claimed eternal torment, and a select few who claimed none of the above.

Depending on your definition of torment, the afterlife for select victims of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, psychiatrist and cannibal, was none of the above.

Or torment. It really depended on your definition, you see.

For some, the thrill of performance would have been eternal bliss. Bright lights? Enter stage right.

But for a group of hapless dead, it really was anything but.

*

“What the fuck,” Will said.

Abigail cupped her chin in her palm, as cheerful pop music blared out from strategically placed speakers. “If music be the food of love,” she quoted.

“What the fuck.”

Randall Tier, wearing what could only be described as an artistic rendering of a saber-tooth tiger inspired sequined suit, twirled under the flickering lights. Judge Davis, wearing what probably was meant to be a robe but really looked more like a trench coat had met a glitter bomb, jerkily shuffled to the side. And a man who looked vaguely like Will could have, if he had gone through intensive idol training and styling, was in the front, with a microphone, crooning what could only be interpreted as an up-beat love song about how he would never, ever, ever, let Will go. Ever.

“—play on,” she finished.

“Did you know about this?”

Abigail gave him a scathing look.

“I mean—” Will backtracked.

“Yes, Hannibal’s idea of the afterlife is just one big idol factory dedicated to producing ghost boybands,” Abigail said, in what could only be described as sarcasm.

Will stared at the scene before him, wondering where his empathy had gone wrong.

Abigail sighed. She patted Will on the shoulder. “Maybe you should talk to him.”

“I don’t think talking is going to work,” Will said, still staring at the scene before him. He was still sitting in the pews, shell-shocked and speechless, when Inspector Pazzi came to inspect the scene.

*

Several days later, in the Uffizi Gallery, Will sat next to Hannibal before the Primavera, searching for the words that couldn’t seem to come.

“Good to see you,” Will finally said.

Hannibal smiled. “If I saw you every day forever, Will, I would remember this time.”

He couldn’t help himself. “Are you going to sing at me?”

Hannibal blinked. “What?”

“That just sound like the lead-in to a song.”

Hannibal frowned. “Will,” he began.

“A Top-20 song.”

His face pinched.

“Sung by a boyband or something.”

Hannibal’s mouth pursed. “Will.”

Will held up a hand. “Listen, I got your message in the Normal Chapel.”

Hannibal’s expression didn’t change.

“And if you wanted me to know you cared, you could have left a note or something. You didn’t need to serenade me with a ghost boyband.”

Hannibal’s expression eased. “Where words fail, music speaks.” The words had a finality to them. And also a melody.

Will closed his eyes. He hadn’t expected that sailing across the Atlantic meant swanning into a musical interlude with Hannibal. But as far as reunions went, singing was better than stabbing or shooting. “Okay. But don’t expect me to sing back.” 

That, of course, was dismissed only scant moments later, right outside the Uffizi Gallery, and Hannibal sang very poetically as Will clutched his new gunshot wound and made some gibbering noises that could have passed for an aria if one was inclined.

**Author's Note:**

> me: why do i keep writing about ghosts when i really just want to write about boybands.  
ellie: why not ghost boybands  
me: damnit  
(roughly paraphrased)  
\--
> 
> for more riveting conversations like the one above:
> 
>   * Follow me on twitter [@virdant](http://virdant.twitter.com)
>   * [Like and retweet on twitter](https://twitter.com/virdant/status/1185055371699769344)
>   * Comment and kudo below


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